


Carpe Diem (Book One)

by trustxlovexhope



Series: Folie A Deux (Rewrite) [1]
Category: Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy, Gym Class Heroes, Halsey, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco, Paramore, The Academy Is...
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Ace Patrick, Amnesia, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Drug Abuse, M/M, Patrick is Ace, Physically Abuse, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 00:53:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28947723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trustxlovexhope/pseuds/trustxlovexhope
Summary: This is a rewrite of Carpe Diem (from my orphaned account.) After some better research, I'm rewriting this story.Patrick doesn't remember five years ago, all he knows is that people tend to pity him when they mention it. Or... the nightmares that have been around since before he can remember. And the occasional black-outs he's dealt with. It's only a matter of time until his past catches up with him and he's forced to face everything he lost.
Relationships: Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz
Series: Folie A Deux (Rewrite) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2123178
Comments: 5
Kudos: 4





	1. the hermit

Group therapy.

I don't know who came up with this idea but they must have been the biggest idiot ever born. That one person who had the  _ amazing _ idea that talking about our problems could solve every last one of them (note the sarcasm). That one person created the idea that the things that make us different from the rest of the world, the things that distinguish us more than we should be distinguished, can be so easily solved just by talking about them. I hate it.

I don't know who had the fucking perfect idea that thinking and talking and discussing and analyzing every last detail that got us here could possibly help us. If anything, it has to make the problem worse. The more we think about it, the more we fear it. The more we fear it, the worse our condition may get, the worse our condition may get, the more therapy we get. It's ridiculous.

The only reason I'm here is because I was forced here. There's nothing actually wrong with me. This stupid counseling center doesn't know the difference between normal people and ill people these days. For example: I'm normal, I don’t do irrational things to get a reaction or hurt myself to cope with emotions. Donovan, however, is ill with depression. He never smiles, not even a twitch of his lips. He always looks so bothered and when he speaks, his voice has a tainted undertone. Broken. He is asked what he wants to do in life and he replies with, "I want to end it."

"Why?"

"I… Don’t know."

And then they put him on suicide watch and hid all the pills and razors and shoelaces until his environment was nothing but safety. I don't know why the hell I'm here. Really, they're all just sick and I'm the only healthy person here.

Everyone else is sick in the head, it's pretty obvious. The moment I stepped in this room for the first time, I knew I didn't belong here. They were all so... depressed and jittery and not to mention a few of them were hugging themselves like their lives depended on it. Unlike me, they were all so damaged and scared. I'm not. I'm not sick. I'm not mental. I'm not depressed. I don't have anxiety or suicidal tendencies. I don't have anything they say I have. I'm healthy! It's unfair.

Then again, life is unfair. I learned that pretty early on.

So here I am. Sitting in a cold, metal chair in a therapy center, completely bored out of my mind because they won’t let me take out my notebook unless I want to say something. I can hear someone beside me basically breathing down my neck. Her name is May. May Ann Campbell. She's looking around like everything is all so new to her and making tiny sounds that are almost inhumane. It's getting annoying but I need to keep reminding myself that it isn't their choice to be like this. It's just... fate I guess. Or idiocracy.

"Who would like to go first?" Our counselor, Dr. Johnson, asks, his light brown hair with blonde highlights weaved through each strand, standing nearly straight up. If each piece were a tree, his head would surely be a slowly dying forest. Rude, I know, but still kind of true. He's aging badly. I wonder what his wife says about it. They’re probably on the edge of divorce or barely hanging on for his paycheck. I’ve seen the wads of money Love gets from the government and passes onto the therapist. He’s a shit therapist, too. Constantly criticising us for the way we act and telling us to “get over it.” I wonder if he even got a degree.

As I aim my focus back at the room, the beige walls, the gray carpet, I wait for someone besides me to say something, anything so I don't have to start the session. But, of course, nobody says anything. I don't blame them. They don't want to be here. I don't want to be here. Not even Dr. Johnson wants to be here. They think they're perfectly fine. They think they can continue with their sickness but I know even little Ruby has severe anxiety. It's pathetic. Why can't I just leave?

"How about you, Patrick?" He asks softly. I knew it. My eyes dart up to meet his, a spark of a bright fire in contrast to my dark glare as I try to scare him off. This must be the three-hundredth time I've been here and he knows I won't play along. "What's happened this past week for you?"

I shake my head and sit back in my chair, refusing to say a thing to that stupid little shit.

I just don't want to do this. I will not help him. I don't care how much money he might offer me, I don't answer to people I don't like. Then again, I don't like anyone. I don't trust anyone so I don't talk to anyone. I don't tell anyone about my problems as if that shit is going to help me. It's complete and utter bullshit. I can figure it out myself.

"Patrick," he warns me, a sound of frustration in my voice. I look back at him, a glare still in my eyes. He looks exhausted, frustrated, done with me. That's good. Maybe I can get out of this hellhole soon, "Are you sure you don't want to talk about it?"

I shake my head stubbornly, he only sighs and after a long, drawn out moment, goes onto the next person, the girl who was making those small noises. What's her problem? Well, she's six years old on the inside, fifteen on the outside. Head trauma from when she tripped and fell off of a building. Don't ask how she fell off that building, what she was doing on that building, why she tripped, why she didn't die. She was extremely lucky, the impact should have turned her brain to putty but it didn't and they found her sprawled on a sidewalk.

They say she used to be an adrenaline junkie. Have you ever seen those videos of people jumping around the tops of skyscrapers from bar to bar on Facebook? I think it started in Russia but she was one of those people. Her camera didn't actually record what happened, all we know is that she was on top of a building and she fell and now she's like this. I've seen some of the pictures of what happened. It wasn't pretty. She has bad depression and anxiety, now, and needs help working through those emotions. I still don’t know why they haven’t given her over to a therapist who specializes in kids.

"So, May, what's happened this past week for you?" Dr. Johnson asks in the lighthearted voice he always asks May. He's always had a soft spot for her. There's another place him and I are different, besides the fact that he's an optimist and I'm a pessimist; he has soft spots, I don't. I don't care about anyone. Why should I? They’ll only hurt.

"I learned how to count to fifteen!" May squeals with a grin on her face in pure joy. It crinkles the edges of her eyes, a true smile. I haven't had one of those in years. Must be nice, huh?

Dr. Johnson smiles back, "That's great, May, would you mind showing the rest of the group?"

She nods, and turns to the center with pride in her voice as she demonstrates what she'd learned, counting all the way to fifteen and I have to watch as she begins struggling between ten and eleven and again between twelve and thirteen. I'm subconsciously tapping my toes on the floor with impatience until Dr. Johnson whispers my name and I stop, furrowing my eyebrows in frustration.

"That's amazing, May!" The counselor... therapist... whatever says when I've stopped and she gets to fifteen.

"Thank you, Dr. J-Johunson." She replies, struggling with his name and I try not to scream.

Dr. Johnson continues through the circle, the rest of the group, from May to Ruby to Donovan to Trevor to Caleb asking everyone questions like, "how was your week?" Or, "Have you felt any better?" Or, "Did you try the thing I showed you last week?" Or, "Why do you think you feel that way?" It feels like forever, with everyone talking mostly about if we've had any anxiety attacks or if we've relapsed or if our cravings to hurt ourselves have gotten worse. He hardly even tries with me anymore. I told Love to quit spending money on me like this but she won’t.

It just convinces me more and more that I really don't belong here. I haven't done anything they've been talking about. I don't do what they do. I'm not like them. This stupid group counseling center is fucked up because I'm okay. I don't get nervous in public and I don't have a reason to live, but that doesn't mean I actively want to die and I swear I don't find life meaningless. I don't cut. I don't have body issues... I mean I don't think I look good but I don't look bad. I just look normal, does that make sense? What I'm trying to say is that I'm just a random ace guy trying to have a normal life and I don't belong here. Why doesn't anyone understand that?

"Thank you everyone for joining us today," Mr. Johnson says with a smile as he concludes the session. His voice is tinted with exhaustion. I don't think he's gotten much sleep over the past week and it makes me wonder if he has his own counseling, "I'll see you all next week?"

Everyone hums in agreement. Each note is out of tune, on a different pitch with a different length on different beats. It's a symphony that nobody signed up for. They don't want to be here, either, they're just too scared to admit it. Maybe May wants to be here but even she isn't in the right mind... er... body... er...

"Patrick?" A woman calls. I stand up immediately, not giving her a single glance. Those blue eyes, the soft brown hair laced with strands of gray, that light honeyed skin, the small pink purse. She's Ms. Umbridge without the know-it-all attitude, wand, or kitten fetish. I don't dare look at her, though. She doesn't get to be rewarded with the luxury of my eye contact and anyways, I've memorized how she looks, why would I need to be reminded?

"Are you ready to go?" She asks as I walk past her, one tired foot in front of the other, my hands in my pockets as I let out a silent sigh. If it wasn't for her I wouldn't be here in the first place. I don't want to talk to her. I don't want to talk to anyone. Never have. I don't even nod as I push open the door in long, fast strides, my head low.

Thankfully, she doesn't protest to my impatience. She knows I hate it, but she doesn't know... me... She doesn't know why I don't like talking. She doesn't know why I was sent to her house in the first place. She doesn't need to know. Nobody needs to know.

We leave the building, passing the gray walls and the gray and black carpet and the small wooden oak table decorated with a lamp and a drawer with a silver knob. It's a boring building, boring and useless and dull and gray and ugly. I've never much liked this place, it's just so... gross, I guess. The color scheme, the smell of old people and cleaner... you know like... the cleaner they use at doctors' and dentists' offices, not to mention the sound of silence and the stuffiness of it. It makes me feel claustrophobic, like there's no way out and I can't escape. But... I guess it's not really the claustrophobia talking, it's the fact that I'm forced to come here and there is no way out. I can't escape.

Fuck.

"How was counseling?" Ms. Umbridge-I mean-Mrs. Love asks in pointless curiosity. I almost laugh at how pathetic she is but I don't.

I don't reply. I never reply to her. I only talk to people I like and I sure as hell don't like Ms. Love. She was the one who forced me here despite the fact that she didn't have to, she's crossed my boundaries too many times for me to trust her, she's doesn't understand things like I do. She doesn't understand who I am and how I think and why I react to things the way I do. She takes me for a child. Not the cute kind.

She takes me for a pathetic, stupid child.

"Your dad is going to be home late today, he had to go on a business trip with his boss-" I quit listening to her. He's not my dad. He will never be my dad. Mr. Love is just another person who's taking care of me for money. If Mrs. Love's monthly reimbursement checks from the government and society has taught me anything, it's that money fuels anyone's desire.

I just keep walking to the exit, pressing open the glass door with a bit of force and not bothering to keep it open for Mrs. Love as I feel the cold air press against my skin, refreshingly like I'm releasing all the tension and claustrophobia pent up from what I felt inside the building. My blonde hair is ruffled by the slight breeze passing through our rainy city of Tacoma, Washington.

"Patrick, you know you gotta start talking soon..." Mrs. Love says behind me, a frustrated sigh passing through her chapped, faded lips and I swear to god if she keeps this up, I'm going to break something (and seeing as the car is close by, it might not be a good idea for her to continue). Not again, please. Just stop. I shake my head in reply, I will not talk. I don't care how much she wants me to; she can ask me every single day until I die but I won't talk for her. I refuse to. I won't do it no matter how much they ask and bargain and plead. My voice is off limits to them. I'm mute and I will stay that way until I die a peaceful death, leaving in my sleep like everyone dreams of, buried in all their favorite colors with all their friends and family at the funeral. I would laugh at the thought if I could. I'll never have that because I have nobody to care for me like that. I have no friends and no family.

"You're seventeen, please stop acting immature like this. It's been five years and you know you can't keep this up." She sighs, "What could have possibly happened that was bad enough to cause you to lose your voice?"

I snap. I don't say a word, but as I turn, my palm on the handle of the car door, I flip her off with a glare that means death. Five years ago never happened. I will not relapse again. I promised myself I wouldn't. I'm healing. I'm okay. No more memories. No more flashbacks. Nothing. I will not let myself fall.

"Patrick!"

I get in the car, slamming the car door shut in anger. I turn my head from her side, too pissed to even look at her. I can't help it. I can't help that I don't like to talk. I just don't like to talk. There is no point in talking. There is nothing to talk about. Nothing. Five years ago never happened I'm perfectly okay. Nothing is wrong.

She never talks about it that way. Ever. I'm pissed that she would even take the risk because she knows how much it affects me.

Stop it. I need to stop. I'm not relapsing again. I'm not going to go through it. No.

Mrs. Love's car door shuts and we sit in silence for an eternity. Her hands in her lap, a conflicted look on her features as she purses her lips, unsure of what to do. I'm so close to whispering to her, trying to will her to just drive and get the fuck out of here but she does nothing. I guess she's just realizing how useless she is. Finally.

"I'm sorry, Patrick. I just... I know how hard it is for you after-" she starts but I only press a finger to her lips and shake my head with a glare, trying hard to get the message through. I don't want to talk about it. I never have wanted to and I never will want to talk about it. I hate thinking about it. I will never talk about it again no matter how much I want to. I will never cry about it no matter how much my eyes sting. I will never think about it no matter how close I am to letting my mind trace that thought. I will not let it get to me. I'm over it.

Mrs. Love nods, shuffling through her purse with the sound of keys and coins jingling against each other. I lock my door and lean against it, letting the uncomfortable surface soothe me as I look out the window. The trees are emerald in color, trailing down the city blocks with sidewalks surrounding them like a natural island in a manmade ocean. I don't know how long I'm there just staring out the window with nothing to do but wait and wonder and think. I really wish I hadn't forgotten my notebook at the house because it's making me feel alone and afraid and stressed. It's really all I need to occupy myself.

The buildings pass by quickly in colorblind blurs with the occasional chromatic advertisement, the flash of a tree, the sight of a bird. I sigh, pulling my hoodie around myself and letting my mind get lost in a maze of thoughts.

The aquamarine sky, the emerald leaves, the stone buildings, the smokey quartz clouds. The world is like a gemstone that's slowly being replaced with worthless rocks. It's our cities and towns and people that are the rocks, the forests and the ice caps and nature that are the gems. Maybe someday, the world can be a gem again, no stone, just diamond and emerald and ruby and sapphire and garnet and quartz. Just the pretty stuff. But life isn't pretty. Life is ugly. Life is a fucked up mess with disappointments and scars. So in the end, no, the world will never be a gem again. It'll slowly be corrupted by the stone and the rock. It's going to be ugly and it's only going to get worse and worse. Everything just really sucks for Earth right now so... on behalf of-

"When we get home could you run to the store to get us some milk?" Mrs. Love asks in a gentle voice. Too gentle. My one and only assumption is that she takes pity on me. That makes me sick inside. Nobody feels bad for me. Nobody could ever feel bad for me. Why should they?

I nod against the window, my cheek slowly rubbing on the cold glass. My fingers weaved together in my pocket as I fiddle with them softly.

How long will it be before the world is stone? Just completely stone? No gems of nature and trees and forests and rivers and animals and life. How long until the world stops breathing? Until the trees have dried up and Earth dies and even tree houses have fallen and-

"Did you finish your homework?" She asks softly.

Could you shut the fuck up and let me think?

I nod. She nods, too, like she already knew it. Fuck her.

Before I know it, the car has stopped and we're at the house. My eyes dart up the front of it, watching it like it's going to try to kill me if I step foot outside the car. It's a small gray house with a white trim, old but new enough to somehow hold its own weight.

I pull on the handle of my door, pushing it open and slamming it shut behind me with a loud noise that echoes through the neighborhood. I rub my eyes tiredly and continue to stare at the house while I wait. There are roses and tulips and lilacs and even some lavender in the square planters in the front, contrasting from the light gray of the house.

Chromatic and monochromatic. Funny how everything made by people is colorless and everything from nature is colorful. Just another reason why I don't like-

"Patrick!" I hear a little boy's voice call from the house, excitedly. I scrunch my nose, annoyed. I hate kids. I hate people in general. 

I watch the door open and the boy's head peak out, a smile immediately crossing his lips, all teeth, "Patrick!"

I don't even force a smile. I don't feel like it. Not even as he comes running toward me, I just keep a dull expression on my face as I put my hands in my pockets and lean against the car, waiting for Mrs. Love to come and give me some money for milk.

The boy, Justin, is about to hug me, his arms spread and a grin on his face. I nearly flinch but that's when Mrs. Love snaps at him, "Justin, don't!"

He stops just about a foot away from me, his smile slowly fading as he realizes his mistake. His arms go limp at his sides, his head lowers, I hear a soft mumble of, "Sorry, Patrick... I didn't mean to almost touch you I just... forgot..."

I don't say a thing. I don't give him any pity. He knows better. Not that I care about him anyways. There are two rules everyone follows when they’re around me. One, don’t fucking expect me to drop a word on you. I don’t talk to people. There is no reason to, so fuck anyone who expects me to treat them special. Two, nobody touches me. Period. Nothing like that has happened in at least a year, thankfully, but there is no touching. Patrick doesn’t touch others, others don’t touch Patrick. And Justin, apparently, forgot that.

"Do you forgive me?" He asks, he looks like he's about to cry.

I ignore him even more intensely, watching Mrs. Love search through her purse and pull out a twenty, handing over the bill, "Just a half gallon will do, no getting distracted, alright, Dear?"

I roll my eyes, taking the money from her and stuffing it in my pocket before walking away, my pace fast but not rushed. No getting distracted, like I ever fucking do.

"Be back by five!" She shouts, I don't bother to look back because there's no way in hell I'll take three hours at the goddamn store. It's fucking stupid.

My feet keep going as I put my hands back in my pockets and keep my head down, throwing my hood up. I hate people looking at me. I hate the way they stare at me like they're disgusted. I don't fucking understand why.

I lost myself to stupid thoughts along the walk, watching the trees and cursing humanity. I've always watched from a distance, I don't interact, I just watch with a hint of humor in my eye

When I finally arrive, my eyes dart up to see the big sign reading Walmart, the blue and white star-thingy beside the logo. It makes me feel a little sick inside and I don't know why. I just don't like going out. It's not that I have anxiety, I just think there are too many risks. Someone could accidentally touch me, try to start a conversation, ask a stupid question, I hate it. I hate this. I hate that she always sends me out. Why doesn't she send someone else from the home like Dylan or Justin or Tanya? At least they would get their first chance to see what the world is really like. Not all fun and games.

I continue to walk, my hands stuffed in my pockets and my head down with my hood fluttering back down off of my head. I don't bother grabbing a cart, instead, just walking to the dairy aisle. My head down the whole way as I let myself get lost in my thoughts again, it soothes me a lot.

I don't know why it soothes me, it should make it worse, shouldn't it? I mean, I think about the things that happened-

Thinking does fuck things up. It leads me down old, forbidden trails. Unsteady trails, one wrong step and the bridge could break. Then again, I've always wanted to start burning some bridges, there are people I want to forget. Ruby, for example, is useless to me. I don't want to learn about any of her problems. I mean... what's the point if I can't fix them?

Useless.

Subconsciously, I open the fridge and pull out a quart of milk, the white liquid sloshing in the carton. I feel bad for the cow that had to give its milk for it. It might be dead by now.

I might sound kind of hypocritical by saying this but people are useless, have you ever noticed that? It's not that they're necessarily bad, I just don't like them. They fuck things up a lot and make you feel uncomfortable. They do things without asking first and the next thing you know, someone else is going batshit crazy because you didn't hold up your end of the deal. You did something that made them not feel right but at the same time, is it the victim's fault for not telling the triggerer? Triggerer isn't even a word, is it? Fuck I need to pay more attention in English. I hate homeschooling.

The air is cold on my front but I can't feel it for much longer before the door is shutting and I'm left staring through the fridge at my reflection.

It doesn't look like me. This boy in the mirror looks insane. I'm not insane. I'm like May, I'm a different person on the inside. I'm not who I look like. This boy in the mirror, he has blonde hair, like the color of honey. His bangs hanging just over my right eye in a smooth, rounded style with a few stray strands here and there. This boy's eyes are colorless through the glass but I can tell they're tired. Tired from insomnia, endless nightmares that take over his once peaceful dreams and kill him inside, paralyzingly him, keeping him from sleep.

He has chapped, pink lips, pressed together in a tight, firm line. He especially looks like shit with the black hoodie, ripped jeans, and old shoes from goodwill added. His wardrobe isn't that great, I can tell. It consists of old tees, faded jeans, and worn sneakers. He looks homeless. He basically is homeless.

I realize people are probably worried about me. Wondering if they should call security or something because I've been standing here for one or two minutes straight lost in my own directionless thoughts. There is no goal to them. They all end dead or continue on to infinity.

I'm about to move, blinking away the thoughts and trying to get ahold of myself.

And that's when I see him.

Dark brown eyes shaded by his black and messy hair. It reaches the tops of his ears in a layered cut that covers the back of his neck as well. He doesn't smile or grimace but I already know he has a smoker mouth through his sensitive red lips, he constantly licks them, I know his habit. He wears a leather jacket, too, with four pockets: two on the chest, two in the bottom corners of the clothing. The thing that really stands out to me, though, is his stubble and I don't know why. You see stubble everywhere. Why does it make me of all people feel so weird.

I know my breathing hitches but I barely feel it. I don't dare spin around. I don't dare walk away. I just stare, my heart pounding in my chest, waiting for him to do something. Anything. Waiting for him to take my hand and lead me away to God knows where. It could be paradise it could be hell. I'm guessing the latter.

He doesn't speak, he doesn’t react, he just stares straight at me through the reflection of the glass. I see his eyes connect with mine in the reflection and I see him give out a sick grin.

And then my vision goes dark.


	2. the tower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments are always appreciated :)

I can't sleep.

I don't know why. I guess it's the insomnia and the nightmares and whatever else keeps me up at night. It's the only illness they're not lying about and even insomnia is just barely an illness. It's more of a setback, I guess. Then there's the nightmares... I don't like thinking about them but sometimes they still get to me and they'll keep me awake in the dead of night when the rest of the house is fast asleep in a long, dreamless sleep. 

Even when I'm desperate for rest, sometimes they'll still creep under my skin and force me to lie awake for hours and hours, watching the night pass through the windowsill in dark shadows and bright specks. 

The moon rising and falling with its great craters and bright silver glow and the stars and planets turning and rotating past Earth, twinkling and shimmering like lampposts through the darkness. I know I’ll be safe inside my room, listening to Justin's steady breaths in the bed beside me: in, out, in, out through his nose as he dreams of living in the far away lands of Narnia and Hogwarts and I'm left trying to create my own fantasies of... well... I don't really have any fantasies. Probably because I don't have a dream or a goal in life.

I'm just happy to just... be. I'm unhappy with the lack of sleep and how much people tell me I'm ill when I'm not but I don't mind living this life. As long as people leave me alone and I don't have to live by these stupid standards... I really don't mind this. I could learn to live like this, possibly loving someone, too. I mean... how hard could it be to love someone? I've never been in love before and... I don't think I ever will fall in love... it's not that I don't want to be in love it's just that... I don't know if I could fall in love. I hate people. People are horrible, they haven't shown me an ounce of kindness and the only one who has shown me kindness, doesn't know what life is really. He’s laying across from me.

One day Justin will learn. It'll go downhill for him like it went downhill for me and he'll be terrified of life like I am. He'll hate it as much as I do. He'll hate people and what they do like I hate people and what they do. He'll see the truth behind what's happening to the world and the environment and how fucked up everything is. How there are murderers and rapists and victims and... and people like me... people who've–

Overall, I hate the feeling. I hate the world. I hate how innocent Justin is. I hate how my thoughts lead here. I hate just lying awake with nothing to do. I hate wondering what it's like to really live versus actually living the life I want... but I can't live the life I want... I'm not even sure how to put what I want into specifics... a house? A cottage? A mansion? Living with a lover? A pet? A friend? Family? In the city? A forest? The mountains? Britain? Chicago? Maybe just Tacoma. This city isn't that bad...

I roll over on my right side with my arms bend in front of me, one elbow under my pillow one above it, just under my cheek with my eyes trained on Justin who looks... peaceful... how does he look so goddamn peaceful? How does he look so... happy with life? So happy with this fucked up world? Like nothing matters. Like nothing could go wrong... like there are no murderers and rapists and–

I keep studying him, his blonde hair that looks brown in the dim lighting, nothing brightening the image but my eyes and the moonlight through the window. It's about an inch or two longer than a buzz cut and covers a little bit of his eyes. Drool is leaking from the corner of his soft, pink lips. It takes all my will to just grit my teeth and try not to focus on it as my eyes continue to trace his figure. His shut green eyes, his chubby cheeks. I hate kids.

I roll back over staring at the ceiling. The worst part about losing sleep is when I see the hallucinations. I don't get enough sleep and I start seeing things and it gets pretty fucking terrifying because I'm so sure that they're there, watching me, but they aren't. It's just a ceiling but I see faces in that ceiling, girls, boys, demons, angels, Justin, the man at Walmart. The man at Walmart. I take a deep breath and sigh out the stress of not knowing what happened.

He was there. I was staring at him. And then the next thing I know I’m back up in my room, staring at the ceiling. I don’t know how I got there. I don’t know what happened, but it’s happened before. I’ve learned not to question it.

I continue to stare at the ceiling. I only see the man at Walmart from earlier today. His dark hair, the blue eyes and leather jacket. And that stubble. That goddamned stubble. I need to stop thinking about him because I don't know who he is. I don't know why he was there. Maybe it was just another hallucination. Maybe...

***

"Patrick," I hear someone say in a daze-like voice beside me. I don't reply. I'm so tired... I just wanna sleep a little longer... I haven't gotten this much sleep in... forever.

"Patrick?" The voice says again. I let out a huff of air, frustrated for being woken up so early, "Are you okay?"

I nod into the pillow.

Yes, I'm fucking fine now leave me the fuck alone. I want to sleep.

"You've been sleeping for fourteen hours straight. Mrs. Love wanted me to come up and check on you to make sure you aren't dead." Lacey replies, I know that voice.

My eyes open wide at the, "fourteen hours straight." And I actually have to finish blinking away my sleep to process it.

I sit up and look over, my eyes darting up and down her figure as my tongue darts out of my lips, she looks really nervous talking to me, I don't blame her. I've given May nightmares in the past just from being who I am, I don't think they deserve it but at the same time I can't help it and it's useless to hear about if I can't do anything to help. So... I really don't care that she's scared. She'll just have to deal with it like the strong fucker she is.

I lean over the bed, reaching forward and letting the carpet graze the top of my pale hand as I pull my notebook and pen out from under my bed, fanning through the pages and quickly scribbling down my message for the poor girl in my neat handwriting.

/Does it look like I'm dead?/

She blushes and steps back slightly, scared and nervous as she stutters out a, "N-No..."

I nod like it's reasonable and write in another message quickly, my hands calm.

/Tell her I'll be down in a little bit./

She nods, a short staccato nod, and, turns away, walking out of the bedroom as fast as she can and nearly tripping as she sprints down the flight of stairs leading to the living room to talk to Mrs. Love. She didn’t even shut the door on her way out.

Once I snap out of it, I let my eyes dart to the clock, I see numbers and at first they don't make sense and I have to blink to truly process them but afterwards, I actually understand them: 11:27 AM.

I don't want to get up. I really do not feel like getting up. I feel like laying here and just... getting lost in my thoughts. No sleep. No food. No showers. Just me and my deadly, deadly thoughts. I want to stay here forever. I would if I could. If it means I don't have to talk to anyone else and just sit here for forever, contemplating the world and trying to find the rhythm... the pattern of the world. Everything has a pattern, have you noticed? Or... or some kind of a cycle. There's the daily cycles, seven daily cycles in a week, four weekly cycles in a month, twelve monthly cycles in a year. Wake up, eat, go to your business, eat, come home from our business, eat, go to sleep. Birth, life, death. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. They're all cycles. Is there a cycle for the world, though? Is it undiscovered? Or is it the cycle of history? Are there cycles in history? I need to stop thinking...

At least the hallucinations are gone.

It's right, the ceiling is just a ceiling. Just white paint on brick. There are no inhuman creatures crab-walking across the ceiling, staring down at me. Just... ceiling.

I shudder at just the thought of them, closing my eyes, but I only see the creatures behind my eyelids and I have to open them again, shooing away the unwanted visitors.

I don't want to get up. I want to sleep. I want to stay and sleep for forever and never wake up... just sleep a dreamless sleep... last night was heaven. I hadn't slept that well in... in... I've lost count of how long... my notebook might know... maybe...

I frown and, now exceptionally curious, open up my notebook again, pulling my knees up to my chest with the book resting on my thighs and I immediately fan through the pages, looking for the last time I'd slept well.

_ December 14th _

_ I couldn't sleep last night. I kept seeing– _

_ December 15th _

_ They keep coming back in my dreams– _

I keep flipping through the pages... December 15th, 16th, 17th, 19th, 21st...

_ December 22nd _

_ I slept well for once last night. No more night terrors or hallucinations. Except for Pete- _

I avert my eyes and shut the notebook immediately.

It was just a bunch of bad dreams. Nothing more, nothing less. I pull my blankets up around myself and hope to god more sleep will just take away all these stupid thoughts.

***

My eyes open slowly, like the waves of an ocean on the shore, the only difference being my eyelids still half closed as I try to wake up at least a little bit. The blankets are warm and I'm note sure what woke me up, I'm guessing my subconsciousness or some shit like that. I know it wasn't a nightmare, I can't remember having any nightmares last night and it makes me kind of happy, proud of myself I guess. I don't have much to be proud of so that's a first in a long while.

I squint as I look up at the clock and read: 7:47 PM. I slept for eight more hours. That's... that's twenty-two hours straight... with one break, of course. I guess Mrs. Love gave up on waking me up, that or she wanted me to sleep longer. Either way, I think I've caught up on a bit of sleep. At least I'm not as tired as I usually am and the walls and ceilings are just walls and ceilings. No unique faces shining out in the dark, mouthless creatures out to kill me, clowns, spiders, strippers, demons. Nothing. I probably need to write soon, too. I always write in my notebook. I never don't write in my notebook. If I don't write things in my notebook, I end up bottling everything up and Dr. Johnson tells me to let it all out which usually involves a ton of screaming and crying and breaking down and I don't do that anymore. It got scary for Justin and Lacey and Tanya and Dylan and the rest of the rats that live in this goddamned house. Have I mentioned that I fucking hate kids?

I don't want to get up, I really don't. It feels nice and warm laying here in bed but I know I'll eventually doze off again and I don't want to let that happen. It's already been twenty two hours, two more would be a bit much and I need to get up sooner or later... I choose the former. I should at least say hi to Mrs. Love. She might worry.

Haha. Funny joke.

My eyes are heavy as I throw the blanket off of myself and shut my eyes when I pull off my shirt and grab a clean one. I don't like to see what my skin looks like so I never watch. I don't look at myself in the mirror either, only to comb my hair so I don't look like a mess. I don't like how I look naked. That's the one thing I can't stand about myself. I don’t know why my body looks the way it looks, but it panics me when I see, so I don’t look.

I open my eyes once the new shirt is on my chest and I do the same for my jeans and underwear, quickly pulling on a new pair. Ripped. Faded.

I head to the bathroom where I comb the part in my hair, trying my best to not look like I just had a fun time with someone special. Ew. Sometimes I think of myself as asexual, just because it's really hard for me to think about having sex with anyone. It just... doesn't appeal to me I guess... I mean... I don't know. I'm confused...

I don't like sex. I've never liked sex. I don't like talking about it, I don't like thinking about it, I don't like fantasizing about it. I mean... of course there's the occasional girl I'll see in the streets but I'll think of her as beautiful, not sexy. But otherwise, I don't think much of sex. I think it's kind of scary in a way...

God, I don't know. I get so confused sometimes and it takes me years to figure out if I'm straight or just asexual. Like... I wouldn't mind hooking up with someone to go on dates or stuff but... Sex scares me. I'm just scared of someone taking advantage of me. And the whole act is just unappealing.

I keep silent as I go back to my room, grabbing my notebook, and head downstairs in short, quiet steps. The stairs creak ever so slightly under my weight but it's not enough to distract the talking Mrs. Love in the living room. I actually stop halfway down the flight to hear her, curious about what she talks about while I'm gone. I instantly regret it.

It starts with a question asked by one of them. An innocent question, oh so innocent but they doesn't know the half of what they're getting into.

"Mrs. Love?" Justin asks, I know it's Justin. Nobody else has that voice. 

"Yes, Dear." Mrs. Love replies in her best caregiver voice, the one that reminds me of Ms. Umbridge.

"Why can't we touch Patrick?" Justin wonders aloud. My breathing hitches at this, my breathing hitches horribly at this and I'm surprised nobody can hear me... It's the question that makes me realize this is going to be a long conversation. 

I sit down on the stairs, judging that I don't want to be standing the whole time... I shouldn't keep eavesdropping. I really shouldn't. I could relapse but... sometimes I can't deny myself the pleasure. He always asks stupid questions like this, always 

"Um..." Mrs. Love is struggling with this one, it makes my insides churn.

"Well, Dear... I don't know that..."

"But Mrs. Love I wanna know!" Justin whines like this is some sort of game. Like life is some sort of game. I want to see the look on his face when he realizes life isn't what he thinks it should be. I would fucking pay to see that look on his face, to see the look of pure terror sketched across his features. I want someone to capture the exact moment he realizes what life is really about and how fucked up mankind is so I can see it. I think it makes me some sort of a sociopath for saying something as messed up as that but... whatever.

"Justin, even if I did know, I don't think Patrick would be comfortable with you knowing." She scolds. Knowing what? What does she think happened to me that fucked me up  _ so  _ bad? I’m not even sick, they all act like I am, but I’m fucking not.

"Please, Mrs. Love? I won't let the secret out," He whines and as I duck my head, I can see him holding out his pinky for a pinky promise. How cute, "Why can't I touch him? I wanna know what happened. Will he turn to stone or something if we touch him?"

Kid. You don't know the half of it.

"Justin, all I know is that something really bad happened–" I should do something to stop her. this is going too far... but I want to know so badly... I need to know. I'm greedy to know what she thinks. It's fucked up but I just can't stop myself, "–when he was in his last foster home."

"What kinds of bad things?" Justin asks, all I can hear for a few moments are my unsteady breaths and the tiny creaking of the stair under my weight. All I can see is the white of the wall guarding the flight of stairs. I strain my ears to hear her next few words. What kinds of bad things?

Nothing happened five years ago.

"They hurt him. That's all I know, Sweetie." Mrs. Love replies.

This is my time to snap at her. Sure, she didn’t say much, but it’s still a lie. I was never hurt. I was never used. Nothing like that. They keep spreading these fucking lies.

I stand up and make my way downstairs, without a care if the stairs creak or not as I quickly scribble out a message in my notebook... just a not-so-gentle reminder to never talk about five years ago again. Nothing happened five, seven, nine, ten years ago. I'm okay. I'm perfectly fine. Stop fucking lying.

"Why did they hurt him? And why can't he talk?" Justin asks, his voice still so innocent. Shut up, Kid.

"I don't know, Justin. They never told me..." Mrs. Love says, "I think he's going to be up soon and–"

"Patrick!" Justin squeals as his eyes lock with mine, I ignore them and instead look to Mrs. Love who has a look of pure terror on her face. Bitch.

I hold up the message to her, I can see Justin trying to read it but he doesn't understand half of the vocabulary in the message. Good. He shouldn't.

_ Don't you fucking dare talk about me or my past again to anyone. I don’t care what little details you put in. I didn’t say you fucking could you fucking bitch. _

She swallows and nods, a glint of anger at my choice of words, "Could I... speak to you in private?"

I turn away, heading to our computer room where the door locks and there are a couple of seats placed: a beige sofa and a brown chair at a dark oak desk. I flop down on the sofa, sitting criss-cross with my back against the arm of the seat and my pen in hand while I wait impatiently for Mrs. Love to return, my foot tapping against my leg. I hear her muffled words through the paper thin walls:

Mrs. Love: I need to go talk to Patrick

Justin: Why?

Love: He just wants to talk for a bit.

Justin: Okay, but you have to pinky promise to tell me the rest later.

Love: I can't, Sweetie, sorry.

Justin: Why?

Love: Later, Darling.

Just: Mrs. Love...

Love: Later.

I hear her creaking through the house and then the door open as she enters the room.

"Patrick, you know I didn't mean for him to ask all those questions." Mrs. Love's voice echoes as she shuts the door and locks it. I scribble down a message in the notebook.

_ You shouldn't have answered. _

I hold it up, looking right into her eyes and it's taking all my will not to break down. I knew I shouldn't have listened. I knew I should have stopped them. I knew, I knew, I knew...

"You're not okay. You don't talk, you can barely sleep, Jones said–"

_ Jones can suck my balls. _

"Patrick!"

_ You don't know what happened. Quit acting like you do. _

“Patrick, I know exactly what happened to you, they fucking told me when they dropped you off at my door to take care of you. Do you know how fucked up you were? Do you have any clue? Patrick, you were a kid. You’d been through so much. I wish you’d stop acting like you’re the only one who needs to carry the burden.”

The burden of fucking what? I glare at her with a gaze that could kill before I stand from my seat and leave the room. Her words sink daggers into my chest.

Nothing happened. Nothing happened. Nothing happened.

I slip my shoes on, willing the tears back.

Nothing happened. Nothing happened. Nothing happened.

First the right shoe.

Nothing happened five years ago. You were okay.

Then the left shoe.

You were forced here. You didn't want to come here.

Stand up.

Mom and Dad are just gone for a while. They'll be back.

Pull on my jacket.

You're not alone. They'll be back.

Scribble down a quick message.

It's okay. Nobody has to know.

Nobody has to know. Nobody has to know

_ "Nobody has to know, Patrick," _

Not the flashbacks. No, no, no. Not again.

_ “Next time you leave from that corner, you’ll get it threefold," _

Stop it.

_ "Don’t run from me!" _

No, no, no, no.

_ "Fucking take the beating." _

Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!

_ "You deserve this." _

The dreams. The nightmares. It never happened.

_ "Get back here you fucking bitch," _

"Stop it!" I scream. Me. My voice. I'm losing it. No. Please. Stop. Stop. Stop.

_ "Nobody is saving you," _

Mrs. Love's voice is being drowned out by the new one in my head as the long held back tears fall from my eyes and I feel the floor collide with my side and my thoughts go silent. I detach from reality. I detach from everything.

_ "Nobody can save you, Patrick," _ He says.

Pete... Please... Stop...

"Justin, call 9-1-1."

"Mrs. Love–"

"Do it!"

"Pete...

"Stop it...

_ "Stop screaming," _

"P-Pete..."

_ "Take your beating," _

"STOP IT!"

"Yes? 9-1-1? There's a boy at our foster home having a dissociative seizure,"

"PETE!"

"We need an ambulance immediately."

And then it sort of just... fades out...

And I'm surrounded by darkness, the distant echoes of his grunts and Love's rushed words...

And it all goes black once more.

I don’t remember a thing.


End file.
